


Live Long and Prosper

by eloquentelegance



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquentelegance/pseuds/eloquentelegance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You meet a boy. You keep meeting him over and over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live Long and Prosper

You meet a boy by the side of the road, where the open meadow met the woods. For a moment, you thought he did not exist. A child of the sun and the sky and the far away horizon, he seemed to breathe with the grass and the breeze. And in that one split second, you couldn’t quite part him from the rest of the land.

But he was all by himself, and you were all by yourself. Out here, in this foreign place, with its strange stars and sunsets, out here where you’re alone and you’re far away from home. You could use some company.

You call him over. Your name is Davie, you say. He greets you but he doesn’t say his name. You didn’t bother to ask.

You invite him over to your little cottage. You came with your Pa, trying to earn a fortune in this savage land. Still better than the poorhouse, you think. You tell him all about your home. The village you were born in, the house where you grew up, you really miss it. You tell him about the flowers that grew by the roads, how in the summer, your mother - bless her soul - she would pick them on the way to the markets. She’d weave them into the braids of her hair and for the rest of the day, she’d forever be perfumed by their scent. She would tuck you in and you would smell it in the nape of neck when she bent down to kiss you goodnight. You tell him, you could make a new house, pave new roads, build brand new villages. But, you say, but those flowers, well, you really can’t find them anywhere else.

That’s when he makes his promise, this odd little boy who you can’t quite believe exists, not yet, not properly. He promises, with hand on his heart, to bring the flower to you. It’s a nice sentiment, you think, and you wave him off with a bemused little smile.

The rest of the week passes in a blur of farm work and house keeping. The tobacco seems to be growing fine. If all goes as planned, you’ll have a nice crop to sell. The food stores are a little low but if you can catch something in your traps, you might just scrape through. There’s the roof to repair and the clothes to mend, and the odd little boy melts into a dream you had once upon a time.

The settlement grows all nice and proper. The colonists have sent for their wives and children now that the lands have been civilised some. There was no one waiting for you and your Pa when the last boat made dock. But you do make some new friends. More hardy men seek their fortunes on these foreign shores and you meet more of your peers. You’re older now, taller, heftier you think. You’ve been out here for a decade or so, about to celebrate your 30th summer, about time to settle down. You have the land and the means to support a wife, maybe a son or a daughter.

You’re walking down the newly paved roads of the recently built village square. You’re with your neighbor, and fancy that, you have neighbors now. He’s griping about something or another - you’re not really listening, and someone is calling your name. Lord, you haven’t been called that in ages. It catches your attention.

You blink. You can see him clearly but it was like he was made of empty window frames and doorless entryways, of the bare bones of a building. It wasn’t that he was thin or scrawny. There just wasn’t enough of him yet. 

And he’s calling for you, calling for the you who went by Davie. But you haven’t been Davie for many years now. It wasn’t proper for a grown man such as yourself. 

"Davie? Did he just call you Davie?" Your neighbor smirks. "Aaw, that’s adorable."

"Oh, shove it." You snap, picking up your pace. And you do not answer the boy’s call. You do not spare him a glance as you walk away. You aren’t sure if the boy is even there. You could not tell where the road ended and he began, this boy who wore the village about his ears and shoulders, like a mantle, like a birthright. 

You don’t think of the boy again. Your neighbor doesn’t speak of him, and you don’t bother asking about him. It was a second out of a minute out of an hour of your day, and you’ve had many days since.

Then you meet her, the woman who would be and now is your loving wife. She came with the second wave of settlers, arriving with her whole family. She smelled of soap and sea and a half forgotten scent from a long ago memory. She had quiet hands and a smile forever tucked in the sides of her mouth. You meet her in the winter, in the afternoon, when a strong breeze carried away her scarf. It hit you in the face and she laughed in spite of herself, laughing honest and unafraid. And you felt your heart press against the lines of your ribs till you could feel your bones rattle with each pulse.

It was a June wedding. You had a son and then a daughter. In a few years, you will live to be half a century old. You consider it a triumph for someone in the colonies, for someone who settled the colonies, to live so long and to be so blessed. You are loved and cherished now and for the rest of your days. Now, you think, now you have made your fortune. Out here with sunsets the color of your daughter’s cheeks and stars found in the eyes of your son, out here with a house warmed by your wife’s laughter and washed by the scent of her skin, out here is now home.

You see him, all of him. He comes up to your porch one autumn afternoon, when the trees blushed red and orange and yellow. Davie, he calls you. Davie, he says again. And in his voice you hear your son’s, your daughter’s, and a chorus of voices you can’t rightly name. There is something very big, very heavy about this boy who stands no taller than your waist. You can see it in the meat of his shoulders and the curve of his jaw, the sky scraping spires of metal and glass, the whistle of steam and the thunder of gunpowder, the sky broken open to far above heavens, footprints on the moon. You see it all in a flash of color and sound. Then you blink.

And it all goes away. 

He talks about flowers, this boy who is not a boy at all, but a promise. He speaks of one, of an oath he made to you, of a bloom with your mother’s memory. He says soon. He promises soon. And forever. And beyond the horizon. 

You ask him where his parents are, because you are a father and you are concerned for this boy. For he is a boy, your fantasies are only fantasies and you are an old man, getting older by the day. Your mind, it wanders to places far and away and the things it finds mucking about, such strange - wonderful - frightening things, those are not to be bothered with. Your eerie visions of towering landscapes are only your imagination, surely, nothing more. So, you ask for his parents.

But the boy only shakes his head, baffled and afraid. He doesn’t understand. He walks away from you with a head bowed and shoulders slumped.

But all around him, you see the roads age and lengthen, buildings heave and grow to colossal heights, a multitude of smudged faces and blurred bodies stream past him, walking to and away from this sad, lonely boy. You blink again.

And you say to yourself, with a hand on your daughter’s head, you repeat his promise. 

"Soon."

And this time, you won’t forget.


End file.
